The Self Made Man
by poetrygirl22
Summary: Drabbles about Porthos, past and present. Varying lengths.
1. The Man from Hell

**All rights go to** **the BBC**

The woman sitting in front of them sipped her wine steadily. "So, you here to see Porthos the Pirate?" She nodded her head as she spoke.

"What do you mean?" Athos looked up from his tankard, his eyes scanning the woman for visible weapons.

"I'd recognise him a mile of I would. Even if he has got rid of the eyepatch. They said he was dead, but I told 'em he'd of survived. And I was right I was." D'Artagnan leaned forward in his chair, his eagerness rolling of him in waves. Their large friend was standing by the bar, talking to a possible informant of a very dodgy salesman. He seemed quite occupied in his conversation, surely he wouldn't mind if they let the woman ramble on. He didn't have to know the topic was him. Or rather, who he used to be.

"What do you know about him?" Aramis glanced at the other men before settling his gaze back on her. "Well, there are lots of legends about him. But I know the facts. I know people who've seen it. I guess I'll start at the beginning then." She paused dramatically, sipping the drink in her hands. "They say 'is mother was beautiful. She came over on a slave ship, packed in. She survived it, but the person in charge noticed her. Noticed her pretty face. He took an interest in 'er, and he- well, you know. And she couldn't do anything about it, she was just a slave. Anyway, he kept doing it to her, and one day she realised she was with child. And the worst thing was, she knew it was his." Aramis kept his breathing calm, it wouldn't do to get angry here. His friends were trying the same thing with varying success. "And she didn't want her baby to get turned into a slave as well. So, when she was sold at the slave market, a rich man bought her. He kept her locked in a dungeon, and she could feel the baby growing inside her. As soon as it started to show he kicked her out, onto the streets."

"And the streets are a hard place for a woman to be. Especially for a pregnant woman with no husband to speak of, even worse for a coloured woman. She lived in the court, then her baby was born. And she looked after it for a while. Named it Porthos. She couldn't get no money, and everything she got she fed her baby. Then, one day, she just didn't wake up, stopped breathing. With the baby still nestled in her arms. Everyone thought the boy would die, but he didn't. A boy called Charon taught him how to steal. Him and a girl called Flea. They survived through the cold Winters and diseased Summers. He got told about his mother see, on the ship. And he was so angry about how she'd been treated.

Now, on the outskirts of the Court, Red Guards used to do whatever they wanted. They'd set great fires. See, the Red Guards, if they saw a pretty beggar girl, they'd, you know, and nobody could stop them. And Porthos was walking along, and he saw, you know, happening to a little coloured girl. And nobody was going to help her. And he went up to the soldier and brought a stone down on his head. He was knocked out flat. But another soldier saw, and went and punched Porthos, so hard he just collapsed on the floor. Then he hauls him off to the cells, and he stays there for a night. And all this time it was only a few years after his mother died. He was only small, and thin with hunger. And people from the court, the venture out to see what's happening. And the man brought a whip down on his back. And he didn't scream, or yell or cry. Even after the whip had taken all the skin off his back, and still carried on. He didn't cry, he wasn't ashamed, he didn't regret saving that girl. Even though he was that young. Its hard to believe it, isn't it?" The woman got up and moved to the next table along. Aramis looked around, d'Artagnan had a look of blind fury on his face, Athos a look of sadness. Because Athos knew this kind of thing happened under the Red Guards.

He looked back over to his large friend, and saw a thin little boy, ready to give up his life to save a little girl he barely knew.

He saw a soldier bringing a whip down on his back.

He saw the scars of the whip at the back of his neck.

He saw a little boy crying over his mother's body.

He saw a man who had come from hell.

Porthos strode over, wearing the easy grin that told nothing of his horrific past. "He's going to meet with the salesman here tomorrow." He looked eagerly round at his friends, his face creasing when he saw their expressions. "What happened?"

"We'll talk outside." It was Athos speaking. They left, walking in silence to get back to the tavern they were staying in. Porthos asked again. "What happened?" Aramis tried to get across what they had just heard.

"A woman told us about your, childhood, in the Court." Porthos froze, looking at each in turn. His expression was guarded, his stance strong.

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you tell us? You don't have to carry that around by yourself." Porthos' mouth was set in a defiant line.

"Why didn't I tell you? Because this would happen. You'd all pity me, think me as that boy. I'm not him, I left him behind. I'm just me. Not him." His voice had raised into a shout, towering over them. He turned around and strode up to his room. The door slamming shut behind him.

Aramis followed him up, turning to go into his own room. How could he have been so stupid? Porthos didn't need reminding of that time, didn't need his friends to know. They had betrayed his trust. They had heard his past from a drunk old women. It wasn't right. Someone knocked on his door, and Aramis yelled for them to come in. The light of the corridor was blocked by the shape of a large man. "Porthos?"

"That's me." Porthos entered and stood awkwardly near the door. He got straight to the point. "What did you find out about me?"

"About your mother and fath… that man, about you growing up, about the whipping. That's all." The question surprised Aramis, as did the sigh of relief after he had told him. It was like the larger man was glad that that was all they heard. What else had he lived through that he didn't want anyone else to know about? What else was he keeping secret? "You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you?" He tried to make the question lighthearted. Porthos just nodded before shuffling out the door.


	2. Shot in the Side

**I don't own any characters.**

When Porthos woke there was a stabbing pain in his side. He lashed out with his fist, feeling a face under it. He forced his eyes open. Judging by the swearing, the face belonged to Athos. Oh dear. His side burned with new intensity as he tried to sit up. He felt hands on his shoulders, keeping him down. Aramis, in protective mode. Brilliant. Just what he needed. "What were you thinking?" Aramis almost yelled the words, glaring down at him. "You could've died! You almost did."

"But I didn't." That, however, didn't seem the right thing to say.

"You got shot. In the side. A few inches to the left and it would've taken out a vital organ." Aramis left his side, walked around the bed he was lying on and threw himself onto the chair next to it.

"Sorry?" Porthos glanced at the others for support but it seemed like he was on his own. It turned out that wasn't the right thing to say either.

"Sorry? Sorry? You were unconscious for four hours. Four! You took on seven men on your own. You're lucky you survived. You almost didn't. You got shot. Shot! Why do you always get hurt? Why does it have to be you every single time? Why can't we get through one mission without someone needing to get stitched up? It isn't that hard. And if it isn't a bullet it'll be a sword. And if it isn't a sword it'll be a concussion. Or poison. Or a broken bone." During his rant Aramis stood up, walked around, then threw himself back into the chair. He looked tired.

"Thank you for fixing me. But you need to rest. I'll be fine." Porthos tried to make his voice strong. Who knows the last time his brother had last slept. "I'll be fine." Aramis had dark bags under his eyes. He nodded begrudgingly.

"Wake me if it gets worse."

"Of course." Aramis sat down heavily on the chair, dragging an arm across his face. Athos cleared his throat at the foot of the bed. He had a purple bruise on his cheek.

"I'm afraid I have to get something for my face." He glared at the injured man, "And d'Artagnan needs to report to Treville. You'll be fine on your own?" The question was aimed at Aramis, but the man had already dozed off.

"Go. We'll be fine." Athos seemed satisfied with Porthos' answer, and turned to leave, d'Artagnan hot on his heels. The large man let his eyes close, sleep beckoning.

When he woke Aramis' eyes were once again level with his. This time he managed to stop his fist from connecting with any faces. "You're hungry." It was a statement, not a question. "I've made stew." Aramis abruptly stood up, turning to the pot hanging over the fire. It smelled like different herbs, Porthos could almost taste it. He tried to sit up, but the movement made his side burn, like he was being branded by a thousand different irons. A groan escaped from between his gritted teeth. Suddenly Aramis was by his side, feeling his forehead, sitting him up so his side wasn't so painful. "Don't move." It was an order. He turned back to the soup, glancing over his shoulder at the injured man. Porthos dutifully sat still, twinges of pain rushing down his side. He didn't dare grimace, no need to worry Aramis anymore than necessary. Aramis returned, clutching a bowl in his hand. Porthos reached up to take it, realising too late that it was his left arm, the side that had got hit. A wave of pain exploded from his wound, dancing through his body till it reached his toes. He let out a cry of pain. Aramis knelt beside him, the soup bowl momentarily forgotten. He carefully unwrapped the bandage, checking underneath it. A few stitches had come out, and the now open wound was bleeding sluggishly. "Stay there." He ran to the door, rushing out into the corridor. Stay there. Like he could do move. He was hardly in the position to leap out of bed and go for a jog. Aramis returned holding a bottle, Athos and d'Artagnan in tow. Athos was probably the source of the wine. Porthos took the drink with his good hand and tipped it down his throat, barely even tasting it. His vision blurred, going fuzzy around the edges. Athos took the bottle from him, putting it on the table. D'Artagnan grabbed hold of his arms, putting all his weight on them. He felt Athos hold down his legs.

Then the needle went through his skin. He roared, struggling and lashing out. But they held him down, even when he kicked and punched. The needle pierced his skin again, pain dancing through his side. He blinked back the tears, trying not to give Athos and d'Artagnan to hard a time. Then the needle bit back into him and all rational thoughts flew out of his head. He thrashed against the people holding him down, only wanting the pain to stop. When it eventually did stop his side was numb. Aramis appeared, signalling for the others to release him. He was sweating. He didn't like causing his friend pain. He hated it.

D'Artagnan heaved himself of Porthos. He was swearing so colourfully it would make a Red Guard blush. Athos raised an eyebrow at him. "You really don't like getting sown up, do you?" He was panting from the effort of trying to hold his strong friend down. Porthos steadied his breathing before replying.

"And you do?"

"I don't try and kill my friends." The man massaged his jaw, where it looked like a bruise might be forming.

"I don't try and kill you."

"You came bloody close." Porthos chuckled, ignoring the pain in his side for a moment./ "Sorry if I hit you."

"Yes, you did. And it hurts." D'Artagnan pouted, but couldn't stop the sides of his mouth turning up in a smile. Aramis ushered him and Athos out, before carefully bandaging the wound up again. He grinned at his friend, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're going to be fine." His words were forceful. But there was something about the look in his eyes that made Porthos doubt who Aramis was reassuring.

"I'm going to be fine." He agreed. Of course he was. He'd recovered from worse. And he'd recover from this.


End file.
